


Brogues, Bagpipe Music and Scotch

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Challenge fic, First Time, Fluffy, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Kiltlock Flash Challenge, Kiltlock flash challege, M/M, One Shot, Porn, Silly, Tropes, Virgin Sherlock, kiltlock, seduction by kilt, short cracklet, trashjohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finally realizes what it will take to seduce Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brogues, Bagpipe Music and Scotch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/gifts).



John knew that he loved Sherlock from the very first time he saw him. The very first time they'd met. The first exchange of words.  
However, Sherlock Holmes did not seem affected by John's attraction. John tried poetry, it was ignored as "useless drivel that must be meant for one of your girlfriends." Like Molly, he attempted coffee and hinted at dinner dates. All of it was taken as platonic and necessary refueling between cases. John even boldly attempted a date to a classical music concert. Sherlock didn't show.

John decided to try physical seduction. He wandered the flat in his towel, wet from the shower. Being the horndog trash that he was, he broke into the bathroom while Sherlock was brushing his teeth. While wearing only pants, John stretched himself over the sink, reaching over for something he didn't need, just so Sherlock could get a good view of his arms, back and arse. 

No response. 

One day, running down the street after a thief, Sherlock stopped in the middle of a crossing path. Not only that, Sherlock stopped in the middle of his sentence and completely lost his train of thought. John skidded, crashing into his back. He cursed, wondering what in the buggery _fuck_ had derailed the brunett's brain and body so completely. Though he was no consulting detective, John read Sherlock's face. His cheeks and neck were gorgeously flushed and his breath was heaving in his chest. 

John followed Sherlock's line of sight. Across the street, a group of Scottish men, playing bagpipes, were crossing on the other side of the road. They were dressed in the finest plaids and in full Scottish Highland dress.

They wore kilts, with black waistcoats intricately buttoned with the plaids dashed across their chests. Sgian-dubh were tucked into their white stocking socks that went up to their knees. On their feet were shiny, black brogues and they wore dress sporrans that glinted with silver chains that held them at the wearer's groin. 

John asked Sherlock if he was ok. No response. He stood in front of him. Nothing. Completely blank. He coughed, interjecting, "John Hamish Watson."

Sherlock blinked a few times, looking down at John, licking his lips, "I'm...I'm sorry?"

"John Hamish Watson. It's my full name. I'm Scottish."

Sherlock looked at John for a moment, blinking quickly a few times. He didn't speak, but turned on his heel and jogged the other direction. John shook his head. He didn't follow the detective, forgetting completely about the thief and the case. 

\---

John woke late the next morning. It was completely quiet in the flat. He wouldn't be surprised if _Himself_ had been out all night doing whatever it was that he did. He decided to shower right away, to scrub off the grime and sweat from the day before, rather than taking tea first. 

Just as he was soaping his arms he heard the door handle turn. "Sherlock?" He asked. John heard his voice through the splash of the water, "You usually eat breakfast first." He sounded so terribly young. 

"Yes. But today I felt filthy. So I decided to clean up first," John paused, moving to soap his thighs, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock coughed. John heard the rustle of paper, "I bought you something. But the wrapping may get ruined in the humidity. I'll take it to my room."

John was surprised, "Let me go back to my room and I'll get dressed. Then you can show me."

"Er," Sherlock stuttered, the gift paper crinkling more in his hands, "What I bought you is an outfit. I was planning on laying it on your bed but you, uh, messed up the order of the surprise by showering first."

John sucked in a breath. Sherlock bought him a gift. He bought him a gift, of clothing, and he was inviting John into Sherlock's _bedroom_ to experience it. 

"Ok. Let me finish cleaning and I'll be right there," John heard the door click shut as the only reply. He hardened in anticipation. Though he doubted the gift of clothing was sexual in nature, the trashy part of John's brain was excited to even be invited into Sherlock Holmes' bedchambers. He scrubbed every inch of himself, making sure if he were inspected by the younger man he would be satisfactory. His arsehole and bollocks tingled with the extra attention, and he suddenly realized it had been a very long time since he'd had sex. All his energy the past couple months hadn't been spent on pulling women and men as it had been during his _Three Continents_ days. Now, all his (failed) focus was on his gorgeous flatmate and best friend.

Since he was getting dressed in Sherlock's room all he did was put a towel on his waist. He didn't bother knocking and let himself right in. He immediately noticed the package wrapped in gift paper on the bed. Looking beyond that, he saw Sherlock putting the finishing touches on a full length plaid, a Watson Tartan, that was wrapped around him from shoulder to ankle. It was a long piece of continuous fabric that was curved and then clipped at Sherlock's slim waist. The rest flared out to the floor. At the other side of his waist that was unclipped, his alabaster skin was exposed from hipbone to delicate foot. It was a cross between a woman's and a man's highland dress, similar to ancient greek style clothing, and it was absolutely _fucking hot._

John couldn't breathe. He let the towel drop to the floor, and went over to Sherlock, kneeling at his feet, "Please, Sherlock, is this my gift? You are so gorgeous."

Sherlock turned away, his face red, "No, I bought you a gift to wear, too, it's on the bed."

John watched Sherlock turn and go to the bed, picking up the package. John let himself admire Sherlock's outfit from the backside. Sherlock handed the package to John, his hand shaking. John, completely naked, took it, but grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling him close.

"Sherlock, look at me, please," John tipped his head up, catching Sherlock's face, "I've tried so hard to tell you. But you didn't seem to be listening. I want you. I'm in love with you."

Sherlock didn't answer, but unwrapped the gift for John. As the wrapping fell away, it revealed a kilt, in the same Watson tartan pattern as Sherlock's dress. Sherlock unwrapped the fabric, running his hands over John's shower-warm skin, placing the kilt on his body. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, leaning down to kiss his shoulder. John moaned, moving Sherlock's hands on his hips.

"Oh, oh Sherlock," John whispered, "What do you want?" 

"I just wanted to see you in the kilt. I got dressed up how I thought you'd like. I didn't know what happens after this."

John pulled Sherlock, manuvering him to sit on the bed. John stood in front of him, holding his head in his hands, "O' my wee li'l scone. I've been i'love wi'yee for a long time. You dont 'ave to wear a thing 'or me, laddie."

Sherlock shut his eyes. He puckered his lips, waiting. John thought it was preciously adorable, but he didn't dare laugh. He gently kissed those puckered lips, and John could feel Sherlock trembling. 

"Sherlock, are you alright? Is this what you wanted?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, nodding, "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know..." John cut off his train of thought by kissing down his jaw, his neck, the shoulder that was not covered by the plaid. Sherlock shuffled back on the bed, his legs opening. John saw, like himself, Sherlock was not wearing pants. There was only an expanse of white skin and wool fabric. 

"Oh, Sherlock, you lovely..." John pulled Sherlock's fabric, exposing Sherlock's expanse of skin. He ran his fingers from Sherlock's shins up his thighs, massaging, and kissing up and down his jaw and neck, "Why did you never tell me, why didn't you say, I tried everything..."

Sherlock tilted his head back, allowing John to kiss his collarbone. Sherlock was silent, his eyes wide, watching John's fingers dance over his skin. John pushed the fabric up so it fanned out from behind Sherlock, leaving most of his legs exposed. His one hip and trail of pubic hair was visible to John. He felt himself moan.

"Oh, darling, lay back. Have you been touched before? My beauty. Tell me."

Sherlock, the yards and yards of fabric splayed out behind him, laid down on his bed. His white skin was off set by his blush and the sheen of sweat forming. The fabric was versatile. It was breathable, but also meant to hold in body heat during harsh, highland winters. As Sherlock breathed, even though the fabric didn't cover a leg and an opposite shoulder, he was quickly heating in anticipation. 

"John, I...." John splayed himself over him, caging him in on the bed, his forearms on either side of his ears, John's groin above his, "I thought about you, when I would touch myself, how you would look, and feel. I've never...Someone tried to touch me, on a case last week, Harold, but it was wrong. I couldn't. It wasn't you."

John recalled the silly case, barely a 3, where this _Harold_ swore someone stole his grandmother's ring. It was actually buried in the backyard. John growled, moving his kisses down Sherlock's neck towards his exposed stomach. He pushed the plaid aside as he went, "What did Harold do? I didn't see."

Sherlock moaned, writhing underneath him, "When you were talking with Lestrade, in the yard, I confronted him. I knew he was attracted to me...," John nipped at his skin, he inhaled, "I saw from his pulse and his pupils. I used it to get information. He tried to kiss me. To kiss me on the mouth. I've never been kissed."

John sat up quickly. He inadvertently ground his hips into Sherlock's, their erections touching, just the woolen fabric between them, "Did he kiss you? And you didn't want it?" The thought of that wicked man touching his Sherlock was giving him visions of burying _Harold_ into the ground next to his ring. 

"No, no, no," Sherlock shook his head back and forth, his curls tumbling over his head and the fabric beneath, his hands running up and down John's legs in an attempt to sooth him, "You're my first kiss. Just earlier. You're always my first in everything. When _Harold_ tried to kiss me, I turned. I couldn't bear the thought of him touching me. Only you. When I touch myself, it's only you I think of."

Without warning, John rolled off Sherlock and laid to the side. He spread Sherlock's plaids to reveal his cock and upper thighs completely. Sherlock's cock was long and pale, precome dripping onto his lower belly. John dipped a finger tip into the liquid and brought it to his mouth. John turned in so he was half laying on Sherlock. 

"Tell me," he licked the shell of Sherlock's ear, "how you would touch yourself and think of me? What would you do?" 

Sherlock whispered, "I use things...Under the bed there is a box I keep."

John jumped off the bed and retrieved the box, setting it on the mattress. He sat beside Sherlock, his thighs open, allowing the breeze to cool down his overheating cock and bollocks. Sherlock turned his head in an attempt to look under his kilt. 

"Oh, you'll get your turn. You're so fucking hot. I want to watch you, my virgin. Touch yourself. Show me."

Sherlock sat up a bit, then pulled out a couple of items from the box. John commanded, "Tell me everything you do. Everything you think of when you're doing it."

Sherlock turned, his face pink, his curls sticking to his forehead, "When you first moved in I never thought you'd dare consider me. So I tried to get my nerve up to have sex with other men. I was so wound up I thought I would die. But I couldn't. It was you or no one. So I bought these materials. This red one, reminds me of what I thought you'd look like, engorged and ready." 

Brandishing the large, double ended dildo like a staff, he took the end of it to lift John's kilt up. Both men moaned. Sherlock held the dildo with one hand, squeezing his own cock with the other. John leaned back, pulling his kilt up around his waist. He showed off his considerable length, dark red and engorged with blood, the tip nearly purple. Impulsively, Sherlock ran the tip of his dildo up and down John's cock, studying the texture and the veins. 

"Oh, shit, Sherlock stop. I'll come too soon. Show me. Show me how you'd think of me."

Sherlock grabbed a bottle of anal lubricant from the box, putting some on his fingers and the toy. He laid the dildo on his inner thighs, a flash of red across white, as he breached his pink hole with one finger. John moved Sherlock and himself so he could lay in between Sherlock's open thighs and watch him. 

Sherlock pushed his forefinger in, groaning at the initial burn, "John, I would imagine this was your finger, pushing into me, touching me," Sherlock then took his other hand and began massaging his nipples, "Your hands, everywhere, I would hear you, in the flat, wishing you wanted me, wishing you wanted to be with me." 

"Oh baby, I did, I do," John looked at the dildo, and put some lubricant on it and his fingers. He began fisting his erection, taking the edge off, as he lined up the dildo with Sherlock's hole. 

"What did you think about with this?"

"I thought of you, John, what you would feel like inside me. Nothing has ever been inside me but toys. No one has been inside me but my fingers." 

John shook, his cock jutting out from between his legs, "Oh, Sherlock, you are so hot and lovely. Tell me."

Sherlock bit his lip, applying more lubricant to his hole. John saw that he was shaved completely clean. Sherlock moaned, the tip of the dildo rubbing up and down his entrance. He thrashed his head back and forth, putting the tip in and pulling it out slightly, pushing it in again, "I would imagine you, John, rubbing yourself against me, pushing into me, just in little bits the first time. I imagined you were so big I couldn't take you all at once. You had to slowly push into me."

John watched the tip of the dildo disappear into Sherlock's body, and pull out. He watched Sherlock's hips thrust up, his cock bobbing freely. John moved closer to Sherlock, watching the younger man moan as he slowly pushed the dildo into himself, his other hand wrapped around his cock. 

"John, I would imagine you were shaking with lust, wanting to take me for the first time, but hoping to be gentle. That's all I thought about, was what my first time might be like with you. If you weren't interested in me, I thought about where I could go, who I might pay to take my virginity. I was losing my mind."

John leaned over, licking a stripe up Sherlock's neck, sucking a bruise onto the side of it. Sherlock sucked in breath. John felt him drop the dildo and it fell out of his arse with a soft _slurp_. John continued sucking, drawing heat and blood to the surface of his skin. Sherlock thrashed, drawing his legs up, scrambling at John's sides, "John, oh my god, John."

John sat up, pulling Sherlock forward. He drew the young man into his arms, their foreheads touching. John nipped at Sherlock's lips, "You are mine, Sherlock Holmes. Now and forever. Don't you ever talk about anyone else having you. You are mine."

John held Sherlock down onto his lap and thrust up. The tip of his cock skimmed over Sherlock's cheeks and hole. Sherlock was so wet it slid, just glancing, teasing against his entrance. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, forcing Sherlock to hold onto him by wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around John's waist. John twisted, lifting Sherlock from the bed and pressing him down against him. 

"John, please," Sherlock was balanced above John's cock, his body wrapped around his torso, "Please, I promise, no one else. No one else." 

"No one else, Sherlock, no one else," John moved the plaids out of his way, holding onto Sherlock's hips. He opened his legs, sitting back on his arse and heels, allowing Sherlock to spread his legs and lower himself onto John's cock. John held him, allowing only his tip to enter, "Doesn't this feel better than your fantasies? Does this feel better than the rubber you had before?"

"Oh, yes, John, please," Sherlock was quivering, grinding down onto John. John kept him at bay, purposely keeping everything slow and teasing. He put just the tip of his cock into Sherlock, pulling it out, putting it back in. Sherlock was digging his nails into John's back, his face in John's neck.

"Sherlock, I want you to remember that you're mine. Forever. Remember, from this first time, I was the first person to have you."

Sherlock bit down on John's shoulder, his hips grinding down in a circular motion. John couldn't stand the teasing anymore. He flipped Sherlock so he was laying on the bed, grabbing the anal lubricant. Readjusting the long plaid so he didn't trip over it, he scooped Sherlock into his arms and carried him out into the living room. 

John placed Sherlock in his chair, arranging him so he was balanced over the back. His knees were on the seat cushion, legs spread wide. John moved the plaid out of the way so he could look at his pink, rubbed hole. He dribbled anal lubricant right down his crack, and Sherlock shivered from the cold sensation. John leaned on his knees on the floor, resting his cheek on one globe of Sherlock's beautiful arse, himself as lazily fingered in and out of Sherlock's puckered hole. He watched the younger man desperately rut against the dangling fabric of his outfit that hung between himself and the chair back. 

"Oh, Sherlock, do you feel my finger? Disappearing in and out of your body? You're so hot. You're taking my finger. So tight, you're going to be so tight and stretch around my cock, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded. John added another, pulsing his fingers in time with the empty thrusting of Sherlock's hips. As he added a third, he found his prostate, watching his ring of muscle redden and large strings of precome drip onto the chair. Sherlock's legs began to shake. Before he could collapse, John wiped his hands off on his plaid, lifting his kilt up around his waist.

"You are mine, Sherlock Holmes. Your beautiful skin, your beautiful tall, lovely body, wrapped in this Watson tartan. I will take you, you are mine."

John ran his fingers down Sherlock's neck, over the love bite. He lined up his cock over Sherlock's entrance, teasing him, his hot, dark red cock a contrast against Sherlock's alabaster skin. He rubbed the tip of his cock up and down and around, just barely dipping in and out of his entrance. Sherlock tried to push back, but John would hold him still with a palm on his neck or his upper back, forcing him just to take very small nudges of his cock. 

When Sherlock began sobbing and begging for him, John pushed into Sherlock, the stretch of his ring of muscle slowly opening over his head. He slowly pushed himself deeper, watching as his body fluttered and took each bit of his thick, long cock. John looked at Sherlock's cock, white and slender, hanging between Sherlock's legs. It was dripping continuously now, wetting a spot on Sherlock's plaid. 

"Do you feel me, Sherlock? Getting closer and deeper into you? Nearly touching your prostate? Do you feel me? God, you're so tight and hot. Just barely stretching you. Can you feel me?"

Sherlock shook, "John, John please. Please."

"What, my bonnie laddie?" John asked, pulling his body down, finally working towards putting all of himself into Sherlock. Sherlock pushed his arse backwards, forcing John to put his forehead on Sherlock's back, "I've got you, Sherlock. I've got you. You are so lovely. So perfect. Please."

John pushed, lowering his hands and spreading Sherlock's arsecheeks wide. He nearly came just from watching his cock disappear into his body, his thighs glistening from sweat. John leaned back, his cock swallowed into tight grasping heat, his release building. 

Sherlock moaned, a low hum that built as he rocked back and forth. John turned and saw Sherlock still had both hands grasping the back of his chair. Untouched, John was slowly milking the orgasm from Sherlock by pulling across his prostate with every thrust. John angled his hips further, spreading Sherlock apart and causing the young man to yell. John's cock was surrounded by pulses and Sherlock's staccato heartbeat. Moaning and writhing, John pushed into him, watching and feeling Sherlock come all over his plaid and the chair, just from John's cock driving over his prostate. 

John came, shaking, and he and Sherlock collapsed. The build up was so long that the actual event was over quickly. John pulled out, kissing his back and neck, "Oh, Sherlock, are you alright? Please. Say something?" 

Sherlock was overly warm, and his eyes were closed, but with a delirious look of joy. John stripped him naked, laying the plaid out on the floor as a blanket. He grabbed pillows from the chairs and laid Sherlock's head down. His eyes were closed, "Sherlock, darling, are you alright? Please. Talk to me."

Sherlock shivered, then opened his eyes. His voice was raw from screaming, "I never knew it could feel like that. It was more amazing than anything I ever imagined. My whole body aches, but I feel as if I may be glowing."

John felt affection and love from every pore. Beneath him, spread out as a alabaster statue, was the most beautiful man he's ever seen. He trusted John implicitly, and had given himself to him, body and soul. 

"Stay here, let me get you something."

John ran to the kitchen, grabbed his bottle of Grant's, tumblers and ice, tucking a wet flannel over his shoulder as he went. He sat down on the floor and began gently bathing Sherlock, who was already beginning to doze. 

"I need to wash you, love, make sure I haven't hurt you. It was your first time." 

Sherlock turned to John, lifting his arm up to touch his cheek, "You didn't hurt me. It was perfect."

John smiled, continuing with his inspection. When we was satisfied, he poured the two tumblers of Scotch, beckoning for Sherlock to climb onto his lap. John leaned his back against his chair for balance. 

"The scotch will warm you up and relax you, my little wee scone, before we go to bed," Sherlock looked up at John with wide eyes, "No, to sleep, this time, my lovely. I've got you, and I'll keep you. Rest a bit, here, against me. When you've got your strength back, I'll carry you to bed."

Sherlock looked up at John, his perfect skin still flushed, his dark curls wet from perspiration. He looked deep in concentration. After he took a large drink of the scotch, he kissed his neck, "I love you, John Hamish Watson."

John smiled, "And I, you, Sherlock." 

 

_Afterword: The plaids only lasted 48 days before they had to order new ones due to, let's just say, wear and tear._

**Author's Note:**

> I realized, after finishing, that Jamlockk wanted brogues to be my prompt. Whoops! If you squint, they're in there.


End file.
